The weepingof the guitar begins.Wineglasses shatterin the dead of night.The weepingof the guitar begins.It’s uselessto hush it.It’s impossibleto hush it.It weeps on monotonously the way water weeps,the way wind weepsover the snowdrifts.It’s impossibleto hush it.It weeps for thingsfar, far away.For the sand of the hot Souththat begs for white camellias.Weeps for arrows without targets,an afternoon without a morning,and for the first dead birdupon the branch.Oh, guitar!Heart gravely wounded by five swords.